


Anguissette

by apocketfulofwry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Angst, Angst and Feels, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drunk Blow Jobs, F/M, Falling In Love, Hand Feeding, Lust at First Sight, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pleasure Denial, Romance, Rough Sex, S&M, Submission, Sugar Daddy, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/pseuds/apocketfulofwry
Summary: On an unremarkable day boy meets girl and all the rest is history.[The one where Sansa acquires a sugardaddy.]





	Anguissette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



** Anguissette **

 

_“When Love cast me out, it was Cruelty that took pity on me.”_

 

\- J **acqueline Carey** , Kushiel’s Dart

 

**Day 1**

 

It’s always the little things. 

She’s at a work function when she sees him. All the way across the room, the light glinting off his cufflinks catch her attention first. He stands in profile in front of one of the high glass windows of her client’s new penthouse. He’s finishing off a glass of wine. As he lowers his hand the crowd shifts and she sees him fully. 

There are few things finer in this world than a man in a perfectly cut suit. 

There is an unnatural stillness to him, as if all the energy in the room had been sucked into the void surrounding his presence. The ebb and flow of the people around him shifts once more and he’s looking at her, head tilted ever so slightly to one side, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. His gaze calls out to her and she’s compelled to come closer, to answer an unasked question. She holds her ground and wills herself into calm. 

Her heart is a wild thing trying to escape its cage of bone and flesh; the rapid beat drowning out all sound. Has the world gone silent save for this ringing in her ears or is she the only one who can hear it? 

Sansa hurriedly gulps the last of her own glass of red for fortification, tossing her head back to facilitate the process. Her hands hang uselessly at her side by the time he reaches her.

He takes away her glass, wipes away the droplet of wine still on her lower lip with a rough thumb.

“Hello. My name is Petyr Baelish.”

 

**Day 5**

 

The first time they make love, he pins her hands above her head. She likes it. She likes him. He’s cultured and interesting, urbane with a tinge of street. A mess of contradictions. His whispered profanities excite her inexorably, almost as much as the feel of him dragging his Van Dyke beard between her breasts, down her belly. She likes him even more when he mouths at the silken lips of her sex, tonguing at the hidden pearl at their apex and coaxing sounds out of her that later on make her blush every time she thinks of him. 

Her next-door neighbour averts his eyes from hers when they run into each other in the hallway the next morning.

The second time they make love he asks her if he could blindfold her. He says this so calmly, so matter of fact that she answers yes immediately. In the dark, with only her four remaining senses to guide her, he rewards her by lavishing attention to her breasts, teasing them with a clever tongue until her world centres on the aching points of her nipples.  

Sansa is enthralled.

The third time they make love he binds her wrists with a silk scarf, fastening them to the wrought iron vines of her headboard. He repeatedly brings her to the edge of coming, stopping just short of reaching that final peak. Her cries sound alien to her ears, that of a creature in great pain or in the throes of the deepest pleasure. She is beside herself. Her back arches, muscles twisting against their restraints, the sweet, sweet ache low in her belly robbing her of all reason. When he finally indulges her, she loses sense of everything. When she floats back into consciousness, he’s freed her from her bindings. Gently massaging up and down her arms and shoulders as she tries to catch her breath.

Sansa thinks she could easily fall in love with this man.

She’s reading a case brief and trying repeatedly to keep her mind from wandering to memories of last night when a messenger arrives, bringing a box containing a single, coral rose.

 

**Day 7**

 

The first time she wakes up in his apartment, it is mid-morning and she is alone. The space beside her has cooled, the hollow where his body had lain a taunting emptiness that reminds Sansa of just how large his bed is. She rolls to lie flat on her back, stretching out limbs still tender from their exertions. Tall as she is – with corresponding length of leg – her toes do not even graze the edge of the mattress. 

She smiles to herself and breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh linen scent of his sea of white sheets. He is a generous and thoughtful lover, intent on giving her pleasure.

Sansa cannot imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

A quiet laugh by the doorway and he’s here with her once more. His hair is still wet from the shower. _His glasses suit him_ , she decides, their tortoiseshell frames contrasting neatly with the silver at his temples. 

He places the breakfast tray on the nightstand next to her side of the bed, kneeling down to look her in the eye and gives her nose a soft kiss. 

“No, don’t get up,” he instructs.

He feeds her warm croissants by hand, breaking off a piece and buttering each individually, bringing them to her mouth. 

His skin is cool against her heated lips and Sansa loses herself in his peculiar green gaze as she sucks on his fingertip.

 

**Day 9**

 

Sansa is more than a little drunk and she’s still coming off the high of their lovemaking when she asks him about the scar on his chest. It is a garish thing, an angry pink ridge against the otherwise unmarred landscape of his lean body. 

Instead of answering, he holds her head gently in his hands and leans his forehead against hers. She’s thinking she could look at him forever when he gently draws back to kiss her softly on the mouth, on her nose, on her forehead. 

He slaps her. 

Before she can recover from her shock, he marches them off the bed and into the bathroom, where the full-length mirror shows her their reflection. His palm has made an angry red welt against her face and he traces the bloom on her cheek tenderly and calls her beautiful. 

She stares, fascinated by the asymmetry. One cheek porcelain and cool, the other hot to touch, flushed from the sudden violence. 

Over lunch she’s discussing her plan of action regarding one of her active cases with a Junior Associate at the firm when she stops in mid sentence, a quick orgasmic spasm between her thighs when she remembers the look in his eye and how his hands felt against her violated face. 

It will be another two days before she can see him again and the desire that grips her each time the memory of his eyes, his mouth, his hands crosses her mind is ruthless in its intensity. She grits her teeth and rides out each wave, desperately counting down the days, the hours when she can feel his touch on her once more.

 

**Day 16**

 

They have their own little routine now. 

For the past five days – save for her going to work – they have scarcely been apart. Her boundaries are slowly being erased, the line between what was acceptable and what is objectionable blurred by the tiny increments each change he introduced took.

He worships her body with a skill that defies all explanation and Sansa’s legal mind struggles to come to terms with how she, a woman of intelligence and cool logic, could become so enraptured with a single being that her entire existence seems to revolve around his whims and caprices. 

It’s dinnertime and he’s seated at the table calmly cutting into his steak au poivre. The myoglobin leaking from the sliced muscle fibers pool around the edges of the meat giving it a decidedly sinister look, as if it were basking in a pool of blood. 

She is seated on the floor, on a cushion by his feet with her head between his thighs. She’s naked and determined to make him stop and moan, to take her against the floor in that rough and forceful way she has only ever experienced from him alone. Every once in a while he holds out a slice of meat with his fingers, feeding her like the family dog. He offers her wine from his own glass and tips it forward a little too much that it spills over the sides, down her throat, between her breasts. 

Laughing, he pushes her down and sucks on a wine stained nipple and she moans happily, spreading her legs wide as he settles between them, unbuckling his belt. 

The silverware clatters noisily against fine china and Sansa looks at the chain anchoring her leg to the table, now pulled taut.

 

**Day 23**

 

Sansa Stark is nothing but a lie.

Respected lawyer, beloved daughter, favourite, (and only) sister by day. She clocks out after work, says goodbye to her colleagues and declines all dinner and drink invitations. While she has never been what one would call a social butterfly, she maintains her friendships and tries to go out with them once every couple of weeks. Her days now belong to the underprivileged, to the wronged, to those fighting to seek justice and her nights –

Her nights belong to _him_.

It’s five PM on a Friday and she’s stuffing briefs back into their folders, arranging her desk and locking her office. She makes polite small talk with her colleagues in the elevator to the car park, and brisk walks all the way to her little Mercedes GLC. Her fingers tremble as she shifts the car into reverse.

Her mouth is dry and her heart is pounding. She steers the car off the ramp and into the late afternoon traffic. 

A few more minutes and she can be with him again.

 

**Day 25**

 

The water in the tub is the perfect temperature.

She has just settled down, humming her pleasure at the warmth suffusing her tired flesh when he arrives. 

He’s still fully dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit ( _another tiring day of making polite noises for polite people,_ he sighs), holding a bowl of grapes in one hand and a bottle of Moet in the other.

He feeds her fruit with an almost clinical detachment and they share the bottle of bubbly together. She closes her lips around the cold glass mouth in mimicry of a more base, carnal act and when their eyes meet she is rewarded by the flash of heat in his unblinking stare. 

Shrugging off his coat, he rolls up his sleeves and begins to wash her hair. His long, clever fingers massage the shampoo into her scalp and Sansa sighs at the luxuriousness of it all. He runs his fingers from root to tip, making sure to coat every strand with the absurdly expensive conditioner he’s had specially made for her.  Afterwards, he carefully towels her off and dries her. A ridiculously soft robe is draped around her shoulders and she is carried off to bed where he makes love to her with such fervour she wonders if any happiness in this world could ever be superior to what she feels right now.

She has never before felt more cherished in her life.

\-----*------

**Author's Note:**

> Never thought I'd put "Sugar Daddy" in my tags but here you go.
> 
> For Ophelia_Raine, who wants a Sugar Daddy in all its gory glory.


End file.
